


It's a Kind Of Magic (The Kings and Vagabonds Remix)

by Camelittle



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: 2018 Camelot Remix, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Magic, Masked ball
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-16
Updated: 2018-06-16
Packaged: 2019-05-13 16:15:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14752139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle
Summary: While Merlin recovers from a punishing stage tour, performing as infamous live-magic sensation Dragoon the Great, he enjoys the relative anonymity of life in a small village. But when he falls head over heels for the gorgeous son of a local landowner, his magic starts playing tricks on him. Until finally, at the annual barn dance, he takes the opportunity to show Arthur who he really is...





	It's a Kind Of Magic (The Kings and Vagabonds Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [enkiduu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/enkiduu/gifts).



> Dear enkiduu. Your original story was so poetic and full of low key melancholy that it made me ache inside in the best possible way. I really didn't know how to do it justice... low key melancholy is not one of my strengths. But I just loved the idea that a mask can at once both hide and reveal, can enable someone to become a truer but hidden version of themselves. Which is how this rather light and fluffy magical modern-AU was born. I hope you like it! 
> 
> To my fantastic and thorough and all round brilliant beta reader Jiang! I am so grateful for your help; you asked all the right questions and helped me to make this a billion times better.

The muck stinks. Merlin’s nose wrinkles as he pokes at it with his uncle’s gardening fork. It makes a squelchy, wet plopping noise. Yuk. He turns his face away, burying his nose in his scarf while he jabs at the soft, fragrant pile. Which, in retrospect, he will realise is probably not the best way to ensure accuracy when trying to transfer forty kilos of ripe manure from a heavily laden barrow onto the bare earth of his uncle’s vegetable patch. Because that's when a sudden change in the resistance at the end of the fork causes him to overbalance, somehow. There’s a wet slapping sound and the next thing he knows, he’s sitting on his bony bum. Horse poo cascades over him in a slick, sodden heap.

Amid his cursing, he’s vaguely aware of a delighted bark of laughter. Great. His hand is grabbed—in an exceptionally strong grip, he notes distantly—he’s hauled to his feet, and he finds himself looking into a pair of the bluest eyes that he’s ever seen.

“Nice work.” The guy’s lips twitch. Dammit, those eyes are an impossible shade. Really. Merlin previously would only have thought that colour could be achieved by application of mad Photoshop skills. He could drown in eyes like those. Except that they are positively dancing with mirth at Merlin’s expense as they narrow to a sort of happy almond shape. “Do you always lie down on vegetable patches and cover yourself in horseshit? I mean, you demonstrate great skill at it, so you must have practised a lot. Odd pastime though…”

“Well, there was I thinking that you must be a gentleman,” retorts Merlin, humiliation complete. “But then you had to bloody well spoil it by opening your mouth!”

Merlin wishes he hadn’t mentioned the mouth, actually. Because as he speaks, his gaze drops down to it, and whoa, those lips! Rose-pink and full, twisted up into a self-satisfied smirk. A mere glimpse of them makes something go _ping_ deep in Merlin’s gut, in a sudden surge of extremely badly timed lust, and drives his magic into a series of ecstatic swoops that threaten to spill over into inadvertent fingertip sparks. Although thankfully, his fingertips are covered with gunge at the moment. And isn’t that an odd thing to be grateful for? Today is full of surprises.

“I could say the same of you,” growls the guy in a voice like gravel mixed with honey—extremely posh honey, created by the most aristocratic of bees. He steps right into Merlin’s personal space. “Is verbal abuse any way to thank your rescuer from death by dung?”

Merlin swallows and tilts his head appraisingly. “I could probably think of another way,” he says, pitching his voice low and hoping that it approximates to seductive.

Unfortunately, he momentarily forgets the whole dung-y-ness of the situation in the sudden burst of heat and attraction that fogs his brain and makes his trousers tighten. He goes for a flirtatious lick of his lips. Which is when he discovers that horseshit tastes, if anything, even worse than it smells.

“Holy crap,” he bites out, choking and spitting. He goes to wipe his mouth with a sleeve, but realising that his clothes are in no better state he aborts the movement. “Ugh! Shit! That’s vile! What the fuck have those poor horses been _eating_?”

“It’s crap all right,” says strong-grip-gravelly-voice guy, “but I’m not sure there’s anything holy about it!”

There’s another one of those loud, unselfconscious barks of laughter and a sympathetic thump to the back. Merlin’s only got a second to register how strong the guy is before Gaius emerges from the cocoon of the cottage. But a second is long enough. Even while Gaius berates him for spilling his prized well-rotted manure all over the lawn, instead of spreading it neatly over the vegetable patch as instructed, Merlin’s mind is now entirely preoccupied with words like _muscles_ and phrases like _fit, or what_?

“Have you lost your mind?” Gaius rants, eyes forming that quizzical asymmetrical stare that must have had junior doctors quaking in their boots before he retired. “Hmm? I’m pretty sure your mother told me that you would be useful in the house and garden; evidently you’ve spent too much time in London. Oh, hello, Arthur. I see you’ve met my nephew, Merlin.”

“Gaius.” Arthur nods at Merlin’s uncle.

“Now, Merlin, I want all this cleared up. I don’t know what strange ideas you have got from all this time in the  city, but...”

“I’m sorry, Gaius,” says Merlin, trying to look contrite as he rubs his mucky hands on his jeans, while still thinking about muscles.

God. This Arthur guy had hauled him out of that stinking pile without blinking. He must be ripped. He tunes out Gaius’s rant and surreptitiously tries to get a peek at his rescuer’s physique. Although Arthur is hidden beneath a waxed jacket and a pair of soft-looking corduroys, the default attire of the gentleman farmer cannot hide broad shoulders nor a firm pair of well-developed thighs.   

“...don’t just appear fully formed in supermarkets, wrapped in cellophane, you know.” Gaius is saying. “It requires sweat and dedication to produce a decent crop of cabbages, and lawns don’t just mow themselves…”

Arthur’s standing behind Gaius now, rolling his eyes as he wipes his hands on a large, white handkerchief. It’s all Merlin can do not to laugh.

Eventually, Gaius returns to the cottage, still muttering under his breath about nephews and how city living corrupts the soul.

“It’s all right,” says Arthur, who to his credit has not fled like any sane person would when confronted by Gaius in full-on wrathful mode, but has instead stood making sympathetic faces. He picks up the fork from its current resting place. The pile of unmentionable sludge makes a soft, sucking noise as it releases its hold. “As I’ve got muck on my hands already, I’ll give you a hand with this lot. It looks like you need it.”  

“Sorry. And thanks,” says Merlin forlornly. His hands are coated in congealing shit. Sometimes he hates his life. Here he is chatting—not just ogling from afar, but actually chatting—to the hottest guy he’s seen for months. Years, even. And he’s covered from head to toe in dark brown, slimy goo that’s beginning to develop a crust as it dries out in the sun.

“Never mind,” says Arthur, as if he’s read Merlin’s mind. “It could have been a lot worse.”

“How, exactly?” Merlin asks with a glare.

“It could have been me!” Arthur grins. “Now, get stuck in, _Mer_ lin. This muck won’t spread itself.”

“What did your last slave die of?” But although he grumbles a bit, Merlin’s too distracted by the pleasing shape of Arthur’s extremely well-put together bum, flexing beneath his well-worn cords as he works, to protest too much.

*

“Merlin? Your tea is ready!”

“Coming!” It’s a few weeks after what Merlin refers to mentally as the Manuregate debacle, and he is frowning at his laptop, tapping his teeth with his pen as he reviews one of his TV appearances.

On the screen, Merlin’s alter-ego, the Great Dragoon—clad from head to toe in green, black and silver lycra—flexes his gloved fingers so that they describe an arc. In front of him, snow begins to fall, glinting in the pale light. In the darkness around him stands a group of twenty to thirty people, with the backdrop of London’s skyline in the distance.

Although Merlin’s face is covered by his mask, his mouth and eyes are visible. The viewer can see his lips move. A bright light flashes nearby, making his teeth glint as he takes in a great breath and exhales across his palm into the falling snow. Instead of melting, the snow sparkles wetly in the cone of light from his head torch and falls tinkling to the ground. His hand is hidden when he scoops up handfuls of it and beckons to a teenage girl in the crowd that surrounds him. Silently, he tips the snow into her upturned hand.

Hmm. Merlin replays that section again, thinking that it would be better if the camera focussed on his hand, so that the viewer can see the precise moment when the snow becomes transformed into something else. Nodding, he restarts the playback at the same frame.

The girl gazes at him, mouth dropping open, then back down at her hand. The camera zooms to it. There in her palm nestle six diamonds, perfectly cut, the light refracting through their facets in sparkling rainbow shades.

Dragoon turns to the camera and grins. He wiggles his fingers and abruptly vanishes from view amid gasps from the crowd.

With a satisfied hum, Merlin replays the video again. Yes, he definitely needs to work on making the moment of transformation convincing before he does that particular trick again. If Will could change the camera angle just a little...

Merlin jumps when Gaius slams a cup of tea onto his desk with a disapproving thud. Pale brown liquid slops over the sides, making a puddle that Merlin mops up with a sleeve.

“One of these days, someone is going to work out how you’re doing that, and then you’ll be in trouble.” Gaius closes the lid on Merlin’s laptop and lifts an admonishing eyebrow. “On television, no less. Could you be any more obvious?”

“I’m wearing a mask,” Merlin protests. He blows steam off the surface before taking a sip. “You literally can’t see anything that can identify me.

“Hmm.” Gaius sighs. “Well, I suppose you have thought about this. But I do worry. Look what happened to your father.”

“Thanks, Gaius.” Merlin flashes him a wan smile. He knows the old man is only worrying about his safety, but he can look after himself. “For the advice. And for the tea. But honestly, nobody knows who I am. Not even the producers.”

Will does, of course. But he’s known Will since they were two years old and their mums used to make them share a bath together. When you’ve squirted a man with a squeaky shark, you aren’t going to start dobbing him in to the authorities for harmless magical misdemeanours with diamonds. Besides which, Will owes his entire collection of vintage toasters to Merlin’s skill with anticipating the final bids on online auctioning sites. Merlin may not know his Manning Bowman from his Rutenber, but he can certainly navigate his way around Gumtree.

“Hmmm.” Gaius harrumphs. “Well, you’d better not let on around here that you’re a TV magician. Uther Pendragon really hates magicians, ever since.... Well, anyway. Keep out of his way.”

Merlin opens his mouth to express his opinion about said Pendragon and the sort of backwards village that seems to put so much stock in one man’s opinion, but luckily remembers in time that he’s a guest here, and closes it again. Anyway, he’s not surprised. Lord Uther Pendragon seems to hate everybody except his gorgeous son Arthur, hero of the Manuregate debacle, and his terrifying step-daughter, Morgana. Those two he both dotes upon and tyrranises in equal measure. Merlin’s not sure what would be worse.

“And I can’t help thinking,” adds Gaius, eyebrow taking on an ominously disapproving tilt. “That there could be something less frivolous for you to be using your gifts on than… than… casting pearls before swine on the YouBoob or whatever it’s called.” He waves a dismissive hand at Merlin’s laptop.

“It’s called YouTube, Gaius.” Sighing, Merlin buries his nose in his tea.

He loves his job, he really does; why do people (well, Gaius, anyway, because not many people know about his magic—his mother made sure to impress on him the importance of that) have to be so disapproving about him using his magic to make others happy? It could be a lot worse. He could be some sort of power-crazed megalomaniac and use his gifts to fuel a profligate lifestyle, all Lear jets and luxury golf courses and bizzarro property deals with Russian megalomaniacs. Or he could use his talents to generate fathomless wealth for himself and then impose his will on the people. Or squander them on ridiculous ego-driven space-race schemes. But his mum brought him up to appreciate the small, everyday things in life, and kindness, and anonymity, and privacy. And all Merlin has ever wanted is to bring joy. Where’s the harm in that?

Anyway, he happens to know that the carbon he used to make the diamonds would only otherwise have been polluting the atmosphere as greenhouse gases. Plus, the girl sold the diamonds to pay off her mother’s debts. But let Gaius think what he wants. Merlin doesn’t mind. Not really. His uncle is kind underneath the bluster, and after the sell-out tour that Dragoon has just endured, this anachronistic little village is offering him just the sanctuary he needs.

 

*

Merlin sniffs the air as he saunters along the pavement by Camelot’s village green, hands in pockets against the slight chill in the air. A family of tiny birds chirrups at him from the hedgerow and flies off, wings whirring. Camelot is a tiny, timeless hamlet. The older part of the village consists of a manor house and a clump of twee thatched-roof cottages around a central green with a pond and ancient stocks. As he inhales deeply, he finds that the air lacks the usual familiar London taste—pollution, stress, unfettered capitalism and greed—and instead boasts an aromatic tang of cut grass mingled with the distant scent of cattle. Resuming his journey, he strides along, listening to the raucous tweeting of the resident bird population as he goes.

His destination—local pub, the Rising Sun—has a selection of potent ales and delicious ciders on tap, all served with a reverence bordering on wonder by its barman, Gwaine. Gwaine, who also happens to be flirty, Irish, and devastatingly handsome. Which, Merlin can’t help admitting, is part of the hostelry’s draw.

All in all, the village is pretty near perfect. Which is why Merlin—although he’s only here for a few weeks, recuperating from his stage tour, not to mention the 14-hour days of filming on his recent “Dragoon Untamed” television show—is seriously contemplating dipping into his pocket to buy a little cottage down the road. Yes, that’s definitely why. Nothing to do with the handsomeness of the local landowner’s son or anything, dear me, no.

He’s anonymous here, too; most people think that he’s just Gaius’s idiotic nephew. In fact, most people think he’s a clumsy bumpkin with nothing but straw for brains. All right, not most people. One person. One very handsome, annoying git of a person who has rapidly become an indispensable part of Merlin’s life ever since Manuregate. One person who, despite possessing an abundant supply of prattishness, or even, at times, clotpoleishness, whatever that is, has a golden aura about him that might just be enough to turn the head of a prominent TV magician and inspire him to purchase a cottage just so that he can have the opportunity and excuse to bump into said person in the street.

Because despite, or maybe because of, the sarcasm and the infuriating grin and the arse and the exceptionally strong grip…

Merlin’s finds himself losing his train of thought for a moment as he remembers that grip. But not the arse, of course. That would be pervy and creepy and, erm... Okay, so he’s a perv and a creep. Because Arthur’s arse. His arse! Oh, God. There should be a law against finely sculpted muscles that bulge so temptingly against his cords like that. A law. A very, very important one.  

And there goes his train of thought again.

So, yeah. Gorgeous git. Arthur Pendragon. Son of the local lord of the manor and, God help Merlin, the most gorgeous, irritating, oblivious git that any self-respecting magical, gay city boy has ever clapped eyes on and lusted over.

It’s not a large village, so Merlin shouldn’t be so surprised when he discovers the object of his affections propping up the bar with his sleeves rolled up, deep in conversation with Gwaine. And actually, he’s not surprised to see Arthur _per se_. It's more the fact that he has his bare forearms on display, and they should probably be banned in such a public place. With all those sinews and thick muscles playing under pink-gold skin, they are probably a public menace or something. And naturally, when Merlin’s gaze lands on these gloriously sculpted examples of Arthur’s enticing anatomy, his thoughts run to tightly gripping hands and firm handshakes and other uses for strong fingers that would definitely not be safe for contemplation in a public area. Not to mention that he’s got to deal with the overwhelming visual impact of Arthur’s golden hair and perfect bum.

It’s little wonder that Merlin’s magic immediately plays up, power fizzing into his fingertips. Merlin jumps involuntarily from the sudden surge of energy, knocking a chair over with a heavy clatter and a curse. Of course, he has to then trip on the chair leg and in the resulting pandemonium end up with someone’s undrunk beer dregs all over his t-shirt.

“Ah,” drawls Arthur, turning with a wide grin. “I was just asking Gwaine here if Camelot’s very own walking disaster area had been in today. Been swimming in any manure lately? Or have we taken to wearing crisp packets as a fashion statement, perhaps?” Leaning forward, Arthur peels an empty crisp packet off Merlin’s cheek and frowns at it. “Cheese and onion? Isn’t that against your strict city-boy vegan principles?”

“Oh, God, if it isn’t Prince Pratdragon and his amazing performing sarcasm.” Scowling his best scowl, Merlin huffs out a long-suffering sigh which he doesn’t mean. He takes Arthur’s proffered hand (That grip. _That grip!_ ) and gets up to stand by Arthur’s side. “Help me, Gwaine, will you? Save me from his razor sharp wit and ever-more unoriginal banter.”

“Hi, Merlin,” says Gwaine, who’s serving another customer. “With you in a minute. Here. Catch!” He puts down the glass he’s filling for a second to toss Merlin a damp cloth.

"Thanks, mate." Merlin dabs at the damp patch on his jeans with the towel. “When you’re ready, I’ll have a pint of the house cider, please.”

“Are you sure you should be drinking cider, _Mer_ lin?” Arthur’s mouth tips up into a one-sided grin. “I’m not sure that Gwaine can afford that many more breakages.”

“Oh, har-de-har,” retorts Merlin.

Because he can’t think of a single clever thing to say, not when Arthur’s gaze is trained on him like that, making his magic do all sorts of tingly things under his skin. All his clever quips go out of the window and he’s reduced to a sort of gormless, doe-eyed mess. So he stands there biting his lip instead, waiting for Gwaine to pour his pint, while the buzz of conversation goes on around him.

Finally, Gwaine’s pouring his cider. Merlin hands over a scrunched-up fiver and takes a long swig of the golden nectar, making appreciative glugging noises. It’s got a pleasingly apple-y aroma, not too sweet, with a well-disguised kick that will make Merlin’s head spin if he carries on drinking it this quickly. But maybe, just _maybe_ it will counterbalance the effect that Arthur’s sheer presence is having on his magic. Merlin doesn’t hold out much hope. “God, Gwaine, this is amazing. It’s like you have a magic touch with apples or something.”

“Yeah, what can I say?” Gwaine shrugs. “It’s like apples love me. Who can blame them?” He grins and flips his hair.

“God save us.” Arthur rolls his eyes.

Merlin chuckles, then takes another few gulps, setting his glass back down on the bar with a satisfied moan.

When he looks up again, Arthur’s staring at his throat and mouth, a little wild-eyed.

“Are you all right?” says Merlin. He he pokes out his tongue to lick around his lips. “Do I have cider moustache or something?”

“Mmm? Oh, no, no.” Arthur looks away, a faint blush staining the perfect curve of his jaw. “It’s um. No. Nothing like that.”

“Of course it isn’t, Princess.” Gwaine winks.

*

“So.” Gwen’s munching her sandwich while she walks. It’s one of their little lunchtime parades around the pond, while she’s got half an hour off from the village shop. “Are you coming to the barn dance?”

On anyone else, it would look disgusting, munching a banana sandwich like that, but somehow Gwen can carry it off. It must be something to do with those dimples. Gwen’s dimples are like charming little characters all of their own. They dance around her face, flirting with her curls and making the sun shine a little brighter every time she smiles.

“Barn dance?” Merlin replies. Not for the first time, Merlin can’t help feeling like he’s walked into an episode of The Archers.

“Yeah. Barn dance.” Gwen takes another bite.

He doesn’t know how she does it. Merlin doesn’t dare walk and talk and eat all at the same time. Not in Camelot, anyway, when Arthur Pendragon might appear at any moment, thus stimulating Merlin’s magic into doing something ridiculous. Like it did that time in Year Seven when he’d had a crush on Christopher Tiler-Mosley. It had taken ages for his mum to convince the head teacher that one of Merlin’s cousins had dressed up in a unicorn costume for a prank. Apart from anything else, Merlin doesn’t even _have_ any cousins. And it would be quite difficult to explain away the sudden appearance of a magical rainbow unicorn in the streets of this sleepy little village. So, Merlin instead keeps a careful vigil on his surroundings to avoid being startled into producing any more such whimsical creatures—or, you know, actual stars, or butterflies or something, he wouldn’t be surprised, given how his magic is playing up at the moment—by Arthur’s sudden appearance.  

“It’s fancy dress.” Gwen adds. Her eyes are positively shining with anticipation. “It’s kind of a masked ball, except it’s in the village hall, so calling it a ball might be a bit of a stretch, and everybody already knows each other, but it’s quite fun being liberated from your usual, you know...” She waves her arms around vaguely. “Thingy. Persona. Identity. Whatever. Just for one night. All sorts of shenanigans can happen.”

She flashes him a hopeful look. He can’t help recognising it. He may be a bit dense at recognising the signals of an oblique invitation, but even he’s not that thick.  

Damn.

Okay, this is it: Merlin adores Gwen, okay? Because, well, she’s adorable. Plus, she’s kind of his link to London. Having only lived in Camelot for five years, she can still remember living in a place where pizzas can be delivered, where lightning-fast broadband is actually lightning-fast, and where you can pop out for milk late on a Sunday evening without having to literally beg the farmer for it, or, worst case scenario, milk the actual cow. Not that Merlin drinks milk, but Gaius likes to have it in his tea. And anyway, well, Gwen is quite possibly the kindest person he’s ever met. And kindness is one of his favourite qualities in a person. But what he definitely does not and can not do is fancy her. Because, you know. Gay.

Time to come clean about that.

“Gwen, love,” he says, stopping his stride and turning to hold both her hands in his own, “I’d love to come to the ball with you. But you do know that I’m gay, don’t you?”

“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Oh!” She looks down at their conjoined hands. “I didn’t… I mean, it wasn’t as if… Oh, God, Merlin, I’m sorry. But I didn’t mean it like that, I don’t… like you. l... Well of course I like you! But not like that, and… Oh, God.”

“Gwen.”

“Haha. I’m such an idiot. Actually there’s someone I like and I was hoping that if you came with me that… well, I don’t want them to be jealous, exactly, but maybe if I go on my own they’ll think I’m such a loser. But if I come with someone they might be jealous. And oh, my God that sounds terrible. I sound like such a user, you must hate me!”

“Gwen!” he says, a little louder, because she’s rambling and from several enjoyable weeks of acquaintance, Merlin knows that she could go on like this for hours. He smiles at her. “I could never hate you. Come on. I’d love to come with you and hold your hand, and we’ll make that stupid boy jealous, if you like. I just didn’t want to give you the wrong impression…”

“Grmmm,” she mumbles.

“Hmm?”

“Girl. I said, girl. It’s a girl I like, actually,” she says firmly. There’s a faint pink tinge to Gwen’s otherwise warm-copper complexion, making her skin glow as if lit from within. 

“Aha!” Merlin’s grin widens and he slings his arm around Gwen’s shoulder. “In that case, Cinderella… you shall join my rainbow revolution! And you _shall_ go to the ball!”

“Barn dance.” Gwen bites her lip, as if suppressing a smile. Taking another bite of her sandwich, she starts walking again, speaking through her mouthfuls to add, in a muffled voice. “We don’t really have balls. It’s not that posh round here, I wouldn’t want you to get the wrong end of the stick.”

“Apart from the poshos up at the manor,” says Merlin, whose thoughts these days never really stray far from Arthur, to be honest.

“Don’t worry about them. Old Uther wouldn’t be seen dead mixing with the riff-raff.”

“Oh. Won’t Ar—any of them come?” Merlin’s sudden twinge of disappointment is nothing to do with wanting to bump into a certain blond prat with sturdy thighs and an inflated sense of self-importance, dear me, no.  

“I hope Mor— more of them might,” stutters Gwen. “Anyway, it’s fancy dress, though - maybe the prospect of disguise will tempt them out. You’ll need a costume with a mask. I do hope you come.” She actually does a little jig with excitement. “Although I suppose we won’t even recognize each other!”

“Huh, that shouldn’t be too difficult,” says Merlin dryly. “Just look for someone who attracts the attention of fresh produce and manure. And crisp packets.” Besides which, Merlin has no idea what to wear.

Just then, the church bells erupt in a riot of jangling.

“Fuck, that’s two o’ clock. I’m late.” Gwen gives him a hasty peck to the cheek and scurries off to the village shop.

Merlin turns to walk back to Gaius’s cottage, deep in thought about suitable costumes for a masked ball-cum-barn-dance. He could do with a bit more information about the event before he makes a decision. Will there be lots of _yee-haw_? Or will it be more… well… he gropes around for a word to describe the local accent, and settles on _ooh-arr_.

Either way, he’s not sure whether he’s got an outfit with him that would work at such an affair. For a moment or two, Merlin is flummoxed. But then a wild idea occurs to him, making him stop in his tracks.

Causing the hitherto silent Arthur, who’s been creeping up on him, to barge into him.

Both men tumble in a painful heap upon the grass verge.

“Ow! Watch it, you clumsy oaf!” Arthur has somehow managed to leap, catlike, back to his feet, from which vantage point he’s gazing down upon Merlin with his best arrogant smirk plastered all over his supercilious chops. It’s enough to make any self-respecting magician want to tackle the prat back down to the ground and tickle him to within an inch of his life. Or until he begs for mercy. Or begs for something, anyway.

“Me? I’m not the one creeping around the village, stalking unsuspecting inhabitants!”

Taking advantage of the element of surprise, Merlin attacks Arthur’s knees, triumphant as he brings him down to lie upon the damp grass. Arthur laughs, fending off Merlin’s best tickles with a pair of very well put together arms. And Merlin’s under no illusions, he knows that someone with muscles flexing that thickly beneath that now grass-stained tight white tee shirt could throw him off without any trouble, which means that actually Arthur is totally all right with this situation. So no-one can really blame him if he carries on for a bit, revelling in the heat of his attack.

“Gotcha!” he crows as he buries his fingers under Arthur’s armpits, enjoying the feeling of Arthur’s muscled thighs pinned beneath his own more scrawny ones. “Submit to me, weakling!”

“Weakling?” roars Arthur. “I could take you apart with one blow, you scrawny-armed city boy!” Abruptly, he throws Merlin to the ground with a single flex of his body and hauls him up by one now muddy hand, eyes sparkling like the sun dancing on tropical seas. “Now get your bony arse out of my way!”

“ _Arr, Mr Archer sir. Sorry, Mr Archer, sir_ ” Merlin says, accent heavily bumpkin-i-fied. He mimes doffing his cap and performs an exaggerated bow. “ _Whatever you say sir. I’ll get them cows moved right away, sir._ ”

“Idiot.” Arthur’s laugh explodes from him and he doubles over.

“Clotpole,” says Merlin, chest heaving with exertion as he aims a careful clod of earth at Arthur’s head to punctuate his statement.

For that, he’s suddenly being chased around the duckpond, past the village’s famous ancient stocks, while an array of rotting vegetation assaults his person, but it’s worth it for that momentary look of surprise on Arthur’s face.  

*

“Boo!” Merlin taps the diminutive figure on the shoulder. She has neat braids piled high on her head, bound in some kind of bright cloth, and is wearing a huge pair of gardening gloves decorated with what look like they could be home-sewn plushy panthers.

“Merlin!” Gwen turns round and punches him hard on the arm. One of the panthers on her glove wobbles sympathetically.

“Holy crap!” He’s not pretending when he grimaces and rubs his arm. “You’re strong! I’m pretty sure the real Princess Shuri wouldn’t attack innocent bystanders, imposter!”

“Serves you right for making me jump.” She smiled at him, pushing her dot-covered cheeks up into an endearing arc.

“That’s not a mask,” he accuses, a little self-conscious about his own attire. “It’s just make-up.”

“Whereas you’ve really pushed the boat out, haven’t you?” She strokes his arm, right where the huge bruise is no doubt blossoming. “That’s proper cosplay you’re doing there, mate. For a minute there, I really thought you were Dragoon!”

“Maybe I am?” says Merlin, in his most mysterious, Dragoon-like tones. “Maybe I’m the real Dragoon.”

“Oooh, you’re good!” she says, laughing, still stroking his forearm. “Have you been practicing? And I like the fabric. Kind of like lycra, but smoother. It must have cost you a fortune!”

“Yeah.” It didn’t; he’d manufactured it with his magic, using a bunch of plastic bottles out of his mum's recycling box, but she didn’t need to know that. He’s about to start making something up about the shop where he bought it when her eyes widen and she looks over his shoulder, mouth dropping open. He turns to see what she’s so distracted by.

“Hell fire!” she breathes. And well she might. Morgana Pendragon has just walked into the village hall, and her Wonder Woman outfit sets off her colouring perfectly.

Morgana looks around, and her face lights up when her gaze settles on Gwen. She starts gliding over, well gravitating, really, like Callisto towards Jupiter, although perhaps he needs to work on that analogy a bit because he jolly well hopes that Gwen treats her girlfriends a whole lot better than that.  

“Morgana,” simpers Gwen, somehow forgetting she’s wearing panther gloves and going for an awkward hand-shake one second, then snatching her gloved hand away the next.

“Gwen?” Morgana’s cheeks colour prettily beneath all that makeup, and her eyes sparkle. “You look, um… kind of amazing, actually. Gosh, have you been working out? Your arms look really ripped…” She’s ignoring Merlin, or rather Dragoon, which suits him just fine, because he’s busy looking anxiously round for someone who might have come with her. 

“Oh, so do you,” gushes Gwen. “Is that your lasso of truth? Oh, use it on me, go on, I promise I’ll tell you what I really think… “

“It’s not real, Gwen,” purrs Morgana. "Why don't you ditch this lycra-lover and come and enjoy the barndance with me?" She lassos the giggling Gwen, reeling her in closer and closer.

Oh, God, oh, God. They’re going to kiss. It’s more of a slightly over-enthusiastic cheek-kissing moment than a full-blown snog, but Gwen’s glove has disappeared, and their hands are suddenly linked together.

Merlin senses that he’s no longer required.

“Well. I’ll just, um…” Rather than have to witness this whole awkward mating ritual for a second longer, Merlin bows and waves goodbye—not that they’re watching—before venturing out onto the grass in front of the big stage.

The moon casts a full, silver glow across the mingled revellers, and a buzz of laughter and hubbub of anticipatory conversation fills the air. Wearing his Dragoon costume had been a fantastic idea. No-one pays him the slightest bit of attention; they can’t even see who he is under all the green lycra. He’s just another anonymous villager, as ignorable as the man wearing the Stig costume, standing over by the ice-cream van.

Merlin lets his magic have free rein over the Midsummer Common, augmenting the effect of the already-pretty twinkling fairy lights that sparkle all around the field. Their light paints rainbow colours over the beer tent. Idly, he lets his gaze drift past them, across the chattering group of people who are waiting for the Fat Bottomed Girls (a local Queen tribute act) to strike up, and finally settles upon the noble countenance of the king of beasts.

And what a king.

Despite the ridiculous blond mane (where on earth did Arthur find a wig like that?) and ostentatious papier-mache crown, Arthur still manages to look all noble and rugged with that square jawline and those wide shoulders that make Merlin go a little bit weak at the knees when he thinks about them, resulting in a brief flare of magic that turns all the beer a bright, luminescent pink for a moment. When there’s an outraged roar from the beer tent, Merlin finally realises what he's done. Hastily, he lowers his head and, closing his eyes, murmurs a spell to remedy matters.

“So…” drawls Arthur. His mask doesn’t cover his mouth nor his eyes, which are raking Merlin’s lycra-clad body with what looks gratifyingly like appreciation. “What have you come as, _Mer_ lin?”

Huh. So much for Merlin’s patent Dragoon disguise. He’s a little bit disappointed at first that Arthur could identify him under skin-tight lycra. But then he realises that Arthur must have memorized the shape of his body, which requires a lot of concentration and surreptitious study. So his disappointment turns quickly to smugness.

“I’m Dragoon the Great, obviously,” says Merlin.

“And what might that be?” Arthur barks out a laugh. “Some sort of burlesque act?”

Merlin rolls his eyes. Viewing figures of ten million on a Saturday night, and still the clotpole remains oblivious to his alter ego.

“I’m not sure that dressing up as a petulant lion cub in a Jon Bon Jovi wig gives you any room for being sarcastic, _Simba_!” Merlin straightens to his full height and looks the gorgeous prat in the eye. “Besides which, burlesque, really?  I’ll have you know that I’m a cabaret act at the very least.”

“And I’ll have _you_ know...” Arthur steps a little closer, so close that he’s invading Merlin’s personal space. So close that Merlin can feel the warm gust of Arthur’s breath through his lycra suit. So close that Merlin can smell his fucking shower gel, or his aftershave, or cologne, or something else irresistibly alluring. And, holy crap! Arthur smells good. “...That as lions go, I’m very much full grown. _Mer_ lin. And I will not tolerate sarcasm from a jumped-up conjuror, however enticingly clad.”

“Oh, really?” Merlin gulps, trying not to latch on to the predatory way that Arthur had said the word _enticingly_. And failing. 

 _Enticingly._ Holy crap. That’s it. Merlin’s screwed. Because, in reaction to the gravelly tones of Arthur’s voice, not to mention that heat and proximity, an excited shiver sends tingles right up Merlin’s spine and bypasses the higher functions of his brain, heading straight for the bit that controls the trouser area beneath his lycra suit. After doing a thorough job there, one that means that Merlin’s going to have to keep his back turned from the crowd for a minute or two, the tingles repeat the exercise all over the deep-down bits of Merlin that are prone to getting excited and making random magic happen.

He sends up a silent prayer to his magic to behave itself. He doesn’t want to be attacked by an angry mob of pink-beer-fuelled peasantry.

They’re still standing there, gauging each other, when the band starts singing _“We Will Rock You”_. It comes as no surprise that Gwaine is their front man.

“So this…” Arthur waves his hand vaguely at Merlin’s costume and swallows. “Your Big Kahuna outfit. It’s kind of famous, is it?”

“Kind of, I suppose, and it’s Dragoon the Great, not Big Kahuna, that’s a Hawai’ian word for a shaman. I’m— Dragoon’s not into cultural appropriation.”

“Whatever.” Arthur shakes his head dismissively. “What I mean to say is, this… this Great… Wahoonie or whatever you called him… is quite the thing on the internet, I suppose?”

“Dragoon!” says Merlin, wondering how this conversation has escaped so drastically from the realms of sanity and trying desperately to drag it back on track. “The Wahoonie is a fictional fruit, Arthur. Whereas the Great Dragoon is a famous TV magician. Obviously.”

“It is?” Arthur shrugs. “Father doesn’t think much of television, I’m afraid, and has a horrible disregard for magical acts, ever since… well. Nor does he care for the internet. Nor fruit, for that matter.”

“And what about you, Arthur?”

Would it asking far too much for the man upon whom he has a deep and painful crush to possibly admire him for the one thing that he is good at? Obviously it would. Because the gods hate him. Or something.  

“Well, I do get my five a day,” says Arthur, smirking. “But it’s mostly vegetables, to be honest...”

“I don’t mean about the fruit, prat.” Merlin bashes Arthur’s arm.

He’s not sure, but lycra probably doesn’t hide his exasperated eye-roll, because Arthur’s still looking at him with a sly-eyed appreciation that makes sparks spread from Merlin’s fingertips, fizzing along every vein and capillary until they penetrate deep into his _soul_.

“Ah.” Arthur nods, mouth a solemn line, but eyes twinkling with mirth and a hint of something else, something that sends those sparks travelling up Merlin’s spine again, making him shiver despite the midsummer heat. “Do you want my opinions on TV magicians in general, or the this Great Gobstopper in particular?”

Arthur’s lion mask does not hide the gradual asymmetric tilt of his goofy, lopsided grin, nor the unfair strawberry-pink hue of his lips, nor the rough-hewn jaw, artfully speckled as it is with a sprinkle of golden stubble that just catches the light from the bonfire. For a brief but distracting moment, Merlin imagines the feel of that jaw along his chin, those lips upon his mouth.

There’s a tiny explosion above their heads, greeted with a distant “ooh” from the crowd.

Oops.

“Prat.” Hastily reining in his magic, Merlin punctuates this terse statement with another abrupt punch to the upper arm. “You’re taking the piss.”

“Correctly diagnosed. Do you read minds? It’s almost as if you’re some kind of magician or someth—mff.”

When Merlin’s lips collide with Arthur’s it’s kind of messy and sloppy, but nonetheless heartfelt. Those pink lips are every bit as soft as he’d imagined, and the urgent press of Arthur’s mouth against his every bit as stimulating. His magic sends a kind of happy glow across his skin.

“ _It’s a Kind of Magic,_ ” sings Gwaine, and an electric guitar plays along.

“I can’t help thinking he’s right,” murmurs Arthur against Merlin’s lips before pulling their bodies closer.

“Mmm,” hums Merlin. “This is nothing. You wait til Dragoon shows you what he can really do.” He lets his magic out in an experimental burst. Far above their heads, fireworks explode into a fierce dragon of bright red and gold who circles around them breathing fire before vanishing into a cascade of sparks with a distant crackle.

“What the…” Arthur breaks the kiss and stares wide-eyed at Merlin. “Your eyes! Wow! Did you just…?”

“Maybe?” Merlin shrugs and grins.

“Oh, God.” Arthur groans most gratifyingly. “You really are Gandalf, aren’t you? My father’s going to flip when he finds out.” But he doesn’t move his hands away, which is the most important thing.

Because, to be honest, they’re a kind of magic, too.

 

*

No-one can remember commissioning or ordering, much less paying for a firework display that year. But nevertheless, it’s the most spectacular they’ve ever seen on Camelot’s Midsummer Common.

 


End file.
